For the first time in a month I’ve felt like myself.
I’ve been calling myself out on my shit.
Papa is a complaining jerk who doesn’t see fit to get off her ass and GET fit. Since I’ve moved home from Vancouver I’ve gained 20 pounds. Which is apparently just my M.O. because whenever I move home I gain 20 pounds. It’s super weird.
I was a wanker last week, let’s be real here. I was just starting out exercising again and that’s always really hard and I’m hard on myself and I cry and I barf in my mouth and then I pull myself together.
Yesterday was the first day that I was like ‘There I am’ while exercising. Not because I immediately lost those pesky 20 pounds, but because I felt stronger. I was motivated and not being a self-pitying twat waffle while crying. Although I did actually barf in my mouth a little bit but that was because I had a mimosa and then worked out.
What a dummy.
SO here I am about to do my 5th work out in a week and I’m proud of myself and I’m not giving up on myself (never do completely) and I’m so excited because I’m three work outs away from seeing some sort of change. (This is what happened the last time.) And even if I don’t see a change at least I know I’m on the right road for it. I’m working and trying and that’s more important than the fact that I’ve already lost three pounds.
Even if I keep crying, barfing, and being in super pain from working out (hello PMS boob pain) I’m still going to battle on because hell, I’ve made it through three work outs in a row, I don’t want to break my stride.
I’m not feeling inspirational these days. I’m mad. I’m tired. And I just want to lay in my bed and watch new episodes of Doctor Who that aren’t even out yet.
Instead of sitting on my ass and watching stuff on Netflix I have somehow managed to pull myself up from my boot straps and started over. (What’s this? Time 2059 of starting over?) I have pissed and moaned to my friend that I would much rather lay on the ground eating cookies and watching something stupid than to have to put the work into getting myself fit. It’s just so much easier.
Which is the problem. It’s really easy for me to convince myself that I don’t want to eat healthy or work out. But somehow, I’ve managed to work out twice this week and I’m dead tired. And I’m sore as fuck.
But mostly, I’m mad at myself again for doing this. Again. My friend and I made a pact five years ago to lose weight together. We would be our support system for such things. Well. Here we both are again trying to get it together. Together we have worked our asses off, and then failed, worked our asses off, and then failed.
I would really like to stop this cycle. So here we are again, at the beginning and I hate having to lift my body parts because they are so heavy. But that’s the point, right? The point is so that I will have energy and a life, and maybe an added extra confidence somewhere down the line.
But starting from scratch AGAIN is the living worst.
Fuck exercise. Fuck eating right. I just want a goddamn poutine and a warm sweater and to watch Tangled.
I have never been shy about how much I weigh. Even when I was getting close to 200 pounds I still didn’t care if people knew that I was that “heavy”. (197 bitches.) I still have a sparkling wit and beautiful face so the number didn’t really matter to me. The fat jiggle on the other hand, could go any time it felt like it.
I’m not shy in saying that I currently weigh (as of this morning) 178. Scooting back up to a higher weight does kind of scare me, not the number itself but because there are so many things that went wrong with my body the last time I was this “heavy”. My knees hurt, I got winded going up a flight of stairs, I could feel body parts wobble that had no business doing so, and every time I put something in my mouth I wondered how long it would take to show on my body. Usually three days. That kind of does something to your self worth.
I haven’t been below 160 since I was 20. So I’m used to my curves and I genuinely like my body. Hell, I’ve been playing with my leg fat since the third grade, I show my family my stomach and play with that too. My big rump is currently my point of pride since I actually HAVE a butt again. (Slowly turning into an ass.)
Some days I feel like a sack of garbage, some days I feel like the most beautiful creature on Gods green earth. Some days I feel like downing so much poutine that I could potentially go into cardiac arrest. Some days I actually feel sexy. (From a girl who has been deemed ‘cute’ and ‘funny’ her entire life this is actually important.)
I have gained 15 pounds since I’ve moved home and yet, I feel more one with my body than I used to.
I weigh one hundred and seventy eight pounds and I’m not ashamed of that number. There’s no reason to be because I measured my body parts yesterday and they told a different story (not to mention just the feel of them alone did, hello rock hard calves.). They told the story of a little inch gain here and there, but overall, nothing devastating. I compared them to my measurements from three years ago when I was on a program to lose weight, and it’s not catastrophic. Not like how the scale was making me feel.
I’m not perfect, but my body is a champion anyway. I may not be able to do push ups for long or plank because my bottom half is heavy and I fall over during work outs a lot because of it, but I wouldn’t trade Thunder and Lightning for anything. (Those are what I’ve taken to calling my thighs lately.)
I’m a huge fan of Jillian Michaels dvds and work outs and I’ve been doing her 30 Day Shred work out for the last year and a half (off and on because I go through phases of laziness) and when I was actually doing it every day I saw results. So I’m back on that train. However, I overestimated my body the other day and what it can currently do and tried her No More Trouble Zone workout. (Hello back fat, I’d like to see the end of you.)
Want to know what happened during this workout?
I cried five times. Yeah. Not once, five. It was tough, I was defeated, and I felt like my big fat body couldn’t do the things I wanted. I made it through 40 minutes of this 60 minute workout before my knees decided they didn’t want to be my friend anymore.
And then I ripped my shorts.
Talk about hilariously humiliating. The worst part is I didn’t even get to HEAR it rip. I just looked down and was like ‘Oh, okay, that happened…” after I’m sure I worked out for 30 minutes with it. It would’ve been worth the brand new shorts if I actually had that moment of RIIIIIIIIIP. Then I could’ve at least laughed on the floor at myself instead of finding it later and thinking ‘What in the hell?”.
Needless to say I’ll be working up to that workout. My body just isn’t ready for it, but I can feel myself getting stronger.
Here’s a little inspirational quote that gets me through the garbage days:
“I’ve got a cute face, chubby waist, thick legs, in shape, rump shaking both ways, make you do a double take. Planet Rocka, show stoppa, flow froppa, head knocka, Beat stalla, tail droppa, do ma thang muthafuckas.” –Missy Elliot.
Numbers are just numbers, how you feel in your body is more important than that. And lately, I feel great. Like a little flower growing in the sunshine.
Or a bulldozer ready to demolish. Whichever.
Keep moving forward.
Otherwise known as ‘Papa G’.
Tomorrow is the start of Lent and although I’m not the most Catholic of Catholics I still love Lent and Easter. I like new beginnings. (Hate endings, go figure.) Three years ago I decided that I was going to stop giving up things for Lent and instead researched what Lent was really about. (Giving up on giving up, typical backwards Allison.)
It’s about doing things to be closer to God and my faith. Now, I’m not going to go all hell-fire and brimstone on you. I just want to take this moment to say that I love Papa G. I do. I’m not ashamed that I love God and I think He’s a wise-guy. (In the sense of both being wise and being a jackass.) I may not go to church or read the Bible or even really actively pray. For me it’s more that I’m like “Ah, shit. I need help. Got any ideas good sir?” and then He trips me so that I fall into where I was meant to be.
We have a good friendship. I thank Him for all He’s done and prevented and for the fact that I’m still here and my family and friends are in good health and happy. We’re bros.
Three years ago it was about becoming a better me in order to thank Him for letting me be on this planet and in this ‘verse. I decided what better way than to stop being a miserable fatty and take care of the bod that the good God gave me.
Two years ago (after dropping 30 odd pounds.) I decided that it was time to pick up on some talents I have and nurture the gifts that the old guy gave me. I took up piano and singing lessons and tried to come out of my shell more. Meet new people, talk! Sing! Laugh! I needed alcohol to help me out sometimes, but I did it.
Last year it was all about busting out of my shell and doing something for the soul. Not faith related really, but more a routine check up on what’s blocking me from being my better self. So I took some chakra classes and figured some things out about myself. (Hello self conscious central. My voice was being muted and I bust through that like it was nobodies business. I’m still working on it though so don’t ask me to speak in public or spring new people on me without my going semi-mute.)
So this year what am I doing?
Should I do something for the heart? For the soul? For the mind? For my sexy sexy body?
Drum roll please.
This year I decided to treat my body like a temple instead of the trash can it’s become in the last year.
I see potential in my body every day and then I promptly eat something revolting that makes me feel like poo and I regret it immediately. Sabotage!!! I don’t know why I do it, maybe it’s because I’m literally making a fat shell so that I have a “reason” to not interact with other people. Who knows, maybe I’ll figure it out this Lent.
So this year I’m going to treat my body how it deserves. We’re going to exercise, eat so well I’ll turn into a rabbit, and by treating my body right the rest will follow. When I eat right and exercise I’m more confident in my movements, I’m more powerful in my voice, and I let people into my heart more because I’m just so fucking happy about where I’m headed. Then a little voice says “You stink” and I eat a poutine. Well not anymore you little fucker. Papa G and I are coming at you!!! (Am I annoying you with how much I’m calling God ‘Papa G’? Haha. Shall we try my other name for him? It’s G-Unite. Just so you know. Okay, that’s a lie, I just made that up. But that’s more obnoxious don’t you think? Haha.)
I’m going to treat myself like the champion I am.
Look out Lent. There’s a new sheriff in town.
I don’t know what that means, but I’m jazzed to start tomorrow. Haha
Here’s Skinny Bitch:
“Brace yourselves, girls: Soda is liquid Satan. It is the devil. It is garbage. There is nothing in soda that should be put into your body.”
Skinny Bitch by Rory Freedman and Kim Barnouin
(They then go on to tell you how an element of aspartame when ingested turned into formaldehyde in your body. Yikes.)